


Liebestraum

by mia_ugly



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pianist, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Apologies to Brahms and Liszt, Gabriel being a Gabriel-typical dickbag, M/M, Pining, Repression, Slow Burn, The War of the Romantics, brief brief mention of period-typical homophobic attitudes, oh god there was ONLY ONE acceptable school of thought regarding musical form
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24452539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia_ugly/pseuds/mia_ugly
Summary: It is 1844. Britain is still recovering from the disaster in Afghanistan. Across the ocean, Morse has just sent his first telegram, racing invisibly across wires as thin as a ledger line. And in Europe, a red-haired pianist named Antonin Crowley is bringing audiences to the point of rioting with his dreadful compositions.Aziraphale Fell doesn't care for that at all.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 88
Kudos: 186
Collections: To The World - Good Omens Anniversary Exchange





	Liebestraum

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soft_october](https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_october/gifts).



> My darling soft_october, you requested a pianist AU, and I took that and threw it back in time and bastardized the War of the Romantics for my own nefarious purposes. I'm sorry to leave you waiting for an ending, but I wanted to bring it home in the way that you deserve (and I will, and quickly.) I can't thank this fandom enough for bringing me into the orbit of your kindness, hilarity and light.
> 
> Thanks always to @themoonmothwrites, @glowcrizzle and @pinehutch for their feedback and encouragement. Betas are heroes, and I'm so grateful for you.
> 
> The story is rated E as a whole, but this chapter is strictly G, so don't get too excited.

When Crowley arrives, Aziraphale is sat at his piano, holding an orange in each hand. 

It’s an old habit from childhood, when he was just starting to play. His father was his first teacher, and he sternly enforced the exercise: carrying oranges in the rare moments Aziraphale wasn’t playing so that the curve of his palms stayed perpetually in shape. He would hold the same oranges on and off for weeks, tongue stinging for the taste of them.

Music was not a joy then. 

It was a punishment and a chore - and a privilege, Aziraphale knows this. Knows that other children weren’t as fortunate as he, more likely to be labouring in a factory than having their knuckles slapped when the arches of their hands fell across the keyboard. He looks back on his upbringing with gratitude, but as a child he can remember staring out of windows, wondering how far he could run before they’d catch him, and whether the punishment would be worth the thrill of fresh air and a pounding heart (132-140 BPM on the metronome, _vivace_ ).

Back then, his hands would cramp from remaining in the same position for so long. They still do, all these years later. He rolls his wrists and rubs his knuckles and ices them when he needs to. He does scales and arpeggios, breathes into his shoulders, trying to keep the tension out, keep his muscles loose. Most nights he sleeps with his hands pressed beneath his pillow, or folded together under his chest, or knotted in his blankets. He needs the weight to stop them moving restlessly, tugging him from sleep to wakefulness. 

Not that he’s been sleeping much lately.

“Oh - Mr. Crowley. I did not expect you.” Aziraphale immediately regrets the state of himself, the state of his study. His spectacles have slid down his nose, and there is ink on his cuffs and sheafs of paper stacked on every available surface of his Erard grand, notes crossed out and re-written over and over, too many times to be legible to anyone.

“Didn’t give you reason to.” The man stands in the doorway like a particularly lovely shadow. Black on black on more black is not the fashion in London, but Crowley manages to look both elegant and careless in a way that Aziraphale hasn’t looked once in his life (he knows what people see when they look at him. Fancy wallpaper with kind eyes and a weak chin. Soft and ridiculous and fussy. And that’s all fine, of course. Aziraphale is admired for his music. He should require nothing else, no light. No heat).

“Will you and your guest take tea, Mr. Fell?” His butler lingers a moment, but Crowley shakes his head.

“Nothing for me, thanks. Haven’t the time.” Behind his dark-tinted spectacles, his eyes are fixed on Aziraphale.

Aziraphale dismisses Edwards with a nod. The door closes softly behind him, and Crowley smirks.

“I’ll have an orange though. Since you brought enough to share.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale had nearly forgotten. “It’s ridiculous, I know. An old exercise -”

“Nah. Never.” Crowley comes closer, that odd unbalanced stride of his that Aziraphale first saw crossing a stage. “I know what it is, angel.”

Aziraphale feels ridiculous anyway, as he very often does around this man. Or - no, perhaps ridiculous is not the word. Unsettled would be more apt. Unbalanced, unmoored, unmade (so many words Aziraphale could choose from, could add to a long, alliterative list that still wouldn’t fully capture the feeling of Crowley looking at him from across a room).

He could say these words, all of them, but Aziraphale is not a poet. Words are not the medium with which he paints. Sometimes he wishes that they were because there are - there are things he would say.

“Please, won’t you sit down.” His mouth is dry, and he briefly wishes that he had asked for tea. Or wine or brandy or water or - something, anything. “I must apologize for my appearance, the state of -” 

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” Crowley does not sit down. “Going home.”

“Oh. I see.” This is not a surprise. Aziraphale hardly expected the man to remain in London indefinitely. Still - he hopes the sudden departure isn’t - doesn’t mean - “Paris, or - ?”

“Home home, actually. I have a house in the country - just outside of Tihany. Lake Balaton. Might - uh - spend some time there. No one around, close to the water. Get some writing done.”

“It sounds charming.”

“You should come with me,” Crowley says quickly.

Aziraphale’s heart starts beating so rapidly, so loudly in his ears that he’s certain he must have misheard.

“I - what?” He laughs weakly, a nervous flutter of sound. “I should -”

“You’d love it there. Water blue as anything. Blue as- ” Crowley clears his throat, scratches the back of his neck. “You could finish your symphony, I could help -”

It isn’t meant to be a barb, but it pricks Aziraphale regardless. “I do not require help, Crowley, and - and - I can’t just leave everything -”

“Course you can. You can. You’ve done it before.”

“For tours, yes. For engagements, for performances, not - not -” Again, the sentences crumble like dried clay between his fingers. “There might be - talk.”

“There’s always talk,” Crowley says with a bark of ugly laughter. “There always will be talk.”

“Not about me,” Aziraphale says, and his words are too quick, and too sharp to the touch. He wants to take them back, even if they cut his lips. “I’m sorry, thank you, it’s a very gracious offer but - but - it’s out of the question.”

Crowley exhales then, short and sudden. He shakes his head, lips moving as a dozen silent sentences hang at the edges of them (Aziraphale watches all this with an orange in each hand).

Then Crowley steps across the room and kneels at his feet. He takes Aziraphale’s left hand in his, slowly unfolds his fingers. Takes the orange and rests it on the yellowed piano keys.

Aziraphale does not have a piano player’s hands. At least not in the romantic sense, and though he loves to read Tennyson and Browning, he knows not to take their words to heart. Poets would have you believe that a pianist’s hands are spidery and long-boned, like two rings of skeleton keys. Like lace brought to life. Like an arpeggio, skipping across the instrument like a stone skips over water.

Like Antonin Crowley’s. Slender and pale and electric at every point they touch Aziraphale’s skin.

“Angel,” Crowley says quietly. He lifts Aziraphale’s palm to his thin, ink-slash of a mouth, and presses a hot kiss into the centre of it.

Aziraphale holds his breath, but he does not close his eyes. He certainly does not. He’s fairly sure he doesn’t. 

“You should come with me,” Crowley says. “I want you to. We can - go off together.”

_(Let’s begin with the opening notes of the melody. Clear and to a ringing purpose. One must state the theme first, before playing with the variations (each segment peeled away from the rest, another bite, another sweet bite.)_

_Start off deceptively simple, straightforward. Convince the listener that they know what to expect. Say nothing of the violent, wine-dark waters ahead. Sing a song about clear skies, calm seas, and easy passage. Da da da DA da da DUM. You see? Easy. Simple.)_

Aziraphale’s upbringing was simple - only child of a composer and his wife, upper class and Southern, Church of England. There had never been any question of Aziraphale following in his father’s footsteps, and doors opened for him readily enough. He took to the history, the theory of music most of all, learned the violin and cello and piano as easily as drinking a glass of still water. He wrote his first sonata at age twelve and then there was Italy and Signor Clementi, then there was Vienna and his first public performance. His first concerto. His first tour.

Aziraphale understands the rules of music, and he credits his success to that. The audience likes to know what to expect. They like balance and form and a return to order in the final chords of the cadenza. Music is like mathematics for him, or perhaps science. In another life, Aziraphale might have been a chemist, found balance and harmony in a different form. But choices were made for him from an early age, and he cannot regret it now. They were the right choices. He knows this.

Things are changing though - the world, as ever, and music alongside it. It is 1844. Britain is still blood-soaked, barely recovering from the disaster in Afghanistan. Across the ocean, Morse has just sent his first telegrams, racing invisibly across wires as thin as a ledger line. And in Europe, a red-haired pianist named Antonin Crowley is bringing audiences to the point of rioting with his dreadful compositions.

“Son of a bloody jobbing musician and a barmaid - it turns my stomach.” (On occasional Saturdays, Gabriel joins Aziraphale for supper.) “ _Hungarian_. I wouldn’t let him through the front doors of Drury Lane, let alone take in the performance.”

Aziraphale’s publisher is an American expatriate, recently employed by Breiztkopf and Härtel. Aziraphale is lucky to have made his acquaintance, and luckier still that the publishing house has taken up with him. He must remind himself of this as Gabriel rants from across the table at him (he’s found it’s usually best to let Gabriel rant himself out. Getting involved only makes the interactions last longer).

“Women are fighting over his gloves. His gloves!”

“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.” Aziraphale takes a spoonful of soup, helplessly smacking his lips together. Divine. Cook has outdone herself.

“Not according to the _Post_. It’s madness.” Gabriel picks up his spoon, hesitates, then puts it down. “I may regret asking this, but what exactly are we eating?”

“Oh, this is ciorba! It’s a meatball soup, with vinegar. A Romanian dish. The last time I was in Brasov, I met a family who invited me to dine with them, and heavens - you should really try -”

“More of a traditional man myself.” Gabriel pushes his untouched bowl away. “Can’t your cook handle a good joint of beef?”

“Um. Well - certainly she can. I confess I’ve been at her to try more regional cuisine. I fell quite in love with the food while abroad, and -”

“A bit too in love,” Gabriel mutters. “I’ll pour my own wine, shall I? Since you seem to be down a bit of staff.”

Aziraphale smiles tightly and takes another spoonful. He is not ‘down any staff’, as it happens. He keeps his house small, gets more work done that way. He doesn’t need anyone hovering over his shoulder at every hour of the day, waiting to be commanded. No, he makes do with Cook and Mr. Edwards, and his housekeeper who drops by weekly. Anything else would be excessive. He likes his space, and his quiet. His books and his music. His routine. The solitude of his life stacked up around him like so many sheafs of parchment.

“Have you seen him perform then?”

“Who?” Aziraphale tries to remember where they were conversationally before his taste in soup was called into question.

“The Hungarian. Antonin Crowley. Keep up, Aziraphale.”

“Oh - um, no, I have not had the fortune. Though I have heard his compositions played.” A young woman, one Mademoiselle Dulcken, had given the most recent performance in Weimar. While her technique was excellent, Aziraphale could not have felt more removed from the music itself. Crowley’s compositions were technically skillful, but showy without depth, ostentatious without direction. Occasionally even discordant. Clearly the man fancied himself a forward-thinker of some kind but Aziraphale left the performance feeling almost offended. It is one thing to take risks, to experiment - but quite another to abandon form and function altogether.

“He’s mucking about in Paris right now. I say let the French keep him.” Gabriel sips his wine, and makes an unimpressed face. 

“I admit I found his style rather - off-putting.”

“That’s one way to phrase it. He’s making a mockery of the masters and those who study them. Some of his detractors are writing an open letter to _AMZ_. You should sign your name to it. Would add some - weight.” He glances briefly at Aziraphale’s buttoned waistcoat which - all right, is perhaps slightly more snug than it was last season. “I would hate to see his sort of music become the fashionable thing.”

“Perhaps I will. I’ll certainly think on it.”

“You should. For the future of music, if not your own sake. _She_ has expressed her support for the letter, so you’ll be in excellent company.” Gabriel doesn’t even need to mention Aziraphale’s esteemed patroness by name; there is no question who ‘She’ refers to in this case. “It might also do some good to remind the world you’re still alive. Since you’ve been hidden away here for so long. Speaking of, how’s your writing going?”

“Very well!” Aziraphale says (tone bright as a lantern and brittle as bone china). “Tremendous. Lots of - er, great progress.”

“Excellent. And when can we expect a preview? I know _She_ will be very anxious to hear it.”

“Can’t rush things, haha.” Hopefully the generous pours of wine will make Gabriel more easily convinced. “But I will let you know as soon as it is ready. A matter of weeks perhaps, no longer. Tremendous progress. My - my finest work.”

_(The first movement of a symphony has energy to it. Tension. Two voices speaking, interwoven - telling the same story in a different way. A call and a response. Perhaps even an argument - but a lovely one. One that you wish to hear._

_One that might surprise you._

_Aziraphale hears these voices while he sleeps, a braid of melody that wakes him up singing. He dreams in music, and sweats music against his sheets, and breathes music against his pillow case._

_And he has been unable to write a single note._

_The symphony is there, he knows it is. There is a song within him, begging to be written. He is right on the edge of it, has it grasped in his hand like a Seville orange. If he could only open his fists and let it out.)_

Days after Gabriel’s visit, Aziraphale receives a translated copy of the letter being submitted to _Allgemeine musikalische_ regarding the music of one Antonin Crowley (they do not name the man in question of course, but it would be impossible not to recognize the letter’s subject). He finds the points being made quite sound and while he doesn’t usually get involved in matters of music criticism, preferring to concern himself with his own works and let the public think what they will, Gabriel’s comments still rankle him slightly. Crowley’s style of composition certainly could be considered disrespectful to the work of those who came before. And Aziraphale does not know the man personally, but he knows his type. He stands against everything that Aziraphale stands for. When it comes to music, to what matters, the two of them are from different worlds, different sides.

So he adds his name to the letter. He doesn’t expect to feel quite so queasy about it after the fact (he hopes he didn’t do the wrong thing).

The bloom of summer withers into fall, and Aziraphale returns to his work - which is to say holding oranges and replaying his favourite works of Beethoven and Chopin and hating the blank pages that stare cow-eyed back at him from his piano’s music desk. 

He puts Antonin Crowley from his mind as best he can, though to avoid the man’s name entirely is impossible. There are constant articles in the _Journal_ , and pictures in the _Illustrated London News_ depicting a rather severe-looking, bony fellow hunched over various grand pianos in various concert halls. There’s also a rather unflattering response to the open letter in _The Monthly Music Record_ , referring to Aziraphale as the leader of a ‘musical temperance society,’ the very nerve. He composes a short (and tactful, if he may say so) reply to the editor, clarifying his position.

Aziraphale writes to his friends, and attends the occasional salon or parlour room concert, and goes for long walks in the early mornings, when the day is still grey and new with potential. And the blank pages at his piano only get blanker.

It is October when he sees the advertisement: 

_A Grand Evening Concert will take place in St. James’s Hall, London, under the distinguished patronage of His Grace the Duke of Helvede._

_Soloist: Mr. Antonin Crowley (pianist)._

He skims the carriage times and ticket sales, and thinks - perhaps it’s time to finally discover what all the fuss is about.

The man may be stirring audiences into frenzy across the rest of Europe, but his reception in England will be different, Aziraphale is certain. He can’t imagine the straight-spined members of Radnor’s Ladies’ Orchestra fighting for anyone’s velvet gloves, no matter the compound fifths he can reach with his famously large hands. 

For some reason - Aziraphale does not mention the concert to Gabriel, or any of the other musicians of his acquaintance. Of course they know of it, the concert becomes the talk of the town, but something compels Aziraphale to go alone. So he does.

(It has been twelve years since he performed at St. James. He can still remember the smell of the safflower oil they used to shine the stage. Still has the programme in one of his desk drawers, pressed flat and smudged with fingerprints and rose petals.)

It is raining the night of Crowley’s London debut. It has been raining for three days without respite, a veritable Great Flood. There is a tangible electricity in the air as Aziraphale steps into the concert hall, a quiet humming like a stripped wire. It is something that he has not experienced in concerts previously. He takes his place in one of the bench seats closer to the stage, and it seems like the group of fashionable ladies beside him are clutching their programs too tightly. It seems like the gentleman in the row behind him is too still and intent on the empty stage, waiting with his jaw clenched. The whole hall seems a den of snakes, all writhing and whispers.

But when Antonin Crowley appears, the whispers stop.

The room goes silent. And -

And -

Aziraphale has seen the man’s likeness, of course, but never before seen the man. Dressed all in black, he crosses the stage with an oddly unbalanced gait, long legs swinging like pendula. His hair is the colour of bloodwood polished to a shine, tied loosely at the nape of his neck. There is a cravat at his throat that could be black or could be the deepest purple. It’s fastened with a silver brooch that catches the light as Crowley sweeps out his coat tails and takes a seat at the piano bench.

He’s wearing dark-tinted spectacles. He does not take them off, which is very unusual, but he turns his head briefly toward the crowd, a casual nod of acknowledgement. There is something… informative in that gesture. Something grudging, perhaps, or reluctant or - Aziraphale cannot quite parse it.

Crowley lifts his hands, and while he isn’t a particularly handsome man, he’s striking enough. Perhaps that’s what’s causing this reaction from the crowd.

And then he starts to play. 

The opening notes ring through St. James’s Hall. A handful of simple chords, played well, yes, but nothing to warrant rapture or riot. Aziraphale inclines his head to one side, listening, and -

-is looking up into the green eyes of the first person he ever kissed (illegal and a sin and never never never tell anyone), his mouth stinging as if he’d been slapped and still swollen sick with longing, ready to fall to his knees - 

-is buckling beneath the weight of the pine coffin digging into his shoulder, while the church bells peal and the perfume of lilies is enough to make him sick, he doesn’t care what Mother thinks, he’s going to be sick-

-is playing with the London Philharmonic for the first time, about to take the stage, and watching the play of dust motes in the air, like beams of stardust, like fingers of a wondrous light - 

-is -

-is -

-is barely able to breathe.

Around him, people are applauding and Aziraphale sees white flashing behind his eyes. He wrenches himself up out of his seat, fumbles for his hat and his umbrella, almost falling in his haste to get to the aisle. How long has he been listening, how long was he under such a spell? It feels as if some demonic magic was at work; somehow Aziraphale was stuck in time and the concert just went on around him. He trips but rights himself, dropping his umbrella with a clatter. On stage, Antonin Crowley is lifting his hands from the keys, getting to his feet to bow and Aziraphale tears his gaze away. He clutches at his chest as he stumbles out of the hall, down the stairs and through the wide double doors, into the rainy air.

My God. 

_God._

He was wrong. 

He can finally breathe again when the cold night hits him, and after a few desperate gasps he finds his heartbeat slowing gradually. God above, he was wrong. He was so entirely wrong about Antonin Crowley. About his music. What he mistook for ostentation was - was emotion, was passion and movement, and - Heavens, Aziraphale signed that letter, wrote a response in its defense even! Without ever hearing the man play! How had he been so foolish, so stupid, how -

Even outside St. James’s, Aziraphale can hear the echoing thunder of applause from within the hall. The thought turns his stomach, brings that bite of panic back to the tip of his tongue. He has to get away from here, has to flee to the quiet of his home. He needs somewhere he can be alone with his thoughts, somewhere to sort out exactly how mistaken he was and what that means for - for everything. 

Everything he knows. Everything he was taught. Everything that matters.

Aziraphale hails the first hansom he sees, and by that time, the rain has started up again. He is grateful for his umbrella or he’d be soaked to the bone. He shakily gives the driver his address, and is just stepping up into the cab when there is a hand on his shoulder, and another man stepping in behind him.

“One more all right?”

The door clicks shut.

“I beg your pardon!” Aziraphale begins sharply, at the same moment that the other gentleman says, “Anywhere is fine, just -”

They both go silent.

Aziraphale notes the flame-bright hair slicked flat with rain. The black lines of narrow shoulders, the fitted waistcoat, riding boots. Black-tinted spectacles, dotted with moisture.

The large, pale hands of a pianist.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says quietly, and Antonin Crowley lets out a long, low whistle.

_(Second movements are slow. They are also Aziraphale’s favourite part of the symphony - but perhaps he’s slow as well. Reticent, even. He likes the sad, gentle songs, likes the honey’d drip of them. Adagio, Andante, a sip of breath, a small respite._

_The electric stillness before a storm._

_The parted lips before a kiss.)_

Antonin Crowley is in his hansom cab. 

Antonin Crowley is sprawled on the bench opposite, leg bouncing restlessly.

“Well. That went down like a lead balloon, eh?”

“Sorry - what was that?”

“My first performance in London, and Mr. Aziraphale Fell fights his way out before the last notes have even finished ringing. A bad look for me, isn’t it? Can see it in the papers now.” The man’s voice is oddly rough, an unplaceable accent (Hungarian and English and the wide, wide world) curving around his words.

“My apologies, I had -” The hansom sways to life, and Aziraphale swallows around the thrum of his anxiety. So much for leaving unnoticed. He’ll never hear the end of it from Gabriel. “There were previous - previous, um appointments that -”

“Yes, you’re very busy, I’m sure. Writing all sorts of important letters. I’ve committed your last one to memory.”

“I -” 

“Hope tonight was just as ghastly as you expected. Wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

It was nothing of the sort, Aziraphale wants to say, or it was ghastly in a completely different way. The spectre of Crowley’s performance hangs over his shoulder and breathes against the back of his neck. Aziraphale will be haunted by it, will hear it beating beneath his floorboards and scrabbling inside his wardrobe for the rest of his life.

“Is this why you’re currently in my carriage?” On the roof, the rain drums heavily. There is no way to escape this conversation, and there is certainly no way to tell Mr. Crowley the real reason he left the concert in such a hurry. “To - to confront me?”

“Hardly. Had to get out of there in one piece. Left out the back before that lot could tear me to shreds.”

“Oh good Lord.” The words escape Aziraphale’s mouth helplessly, there’s no stopping them. He almost blushes, even though embarrassment is far preferable to guilt.

“Don’t believe me? It’s happened before. Still have scratch marks from Venice.”

“What a hardship that must be for you.” Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Being so beloved.”

“Not beloved by everyone, clearly.”

“Is that so impossible to believe?” This is not going well, but Aziraphale is - flustered and defensive and - how dare this man get into his taxicab uninvited just to antagonize him? As if Aziraphale was his sole detractor, as if he isn’t entitled to contrary opinions (wrong, you were wrong, something hisses in his skull).

“Of course not. I’m no Aziraphale Fell.”

“I fail to -”

“Not the right pedigree, am I? Well. We can’t all grow up with nothing to do but play music. Some of us had to work for a living.” 

“That _was_ work, Mr. Crowley,” Aziraphale snaps, a bit sharper than he means to. “I have spent most of my life learning the history of composition that you casually tread upon -”

“Yeah?” Crowley says, flat and casual, like he can’t be bothered to care (there is a tightness to his mouth now that wasn’t there before.) “All that posh schooling - _what a hardship that must be for you_.”

“I would be very interested to hear where _you_ studied, if any school of music would claim you.” 

Crowley chokes out a rough laugh, and shakes his head. It is difficult to read his expression with his eyes covered, and it makes Aziraphale nervous. Everything about the man makes him nervous.

“Bit of a bastard, aren’t you? Didn’t expect that.”

“I rather doubt I want to hear what you expected.” (Boring, bland, elitist, silly - a handful of descriptions rise like dread in his stomach.)

“Everyone goes on about how kind you are.” The word sounds like a curse in Crowley’s mouth. A bite of lemon, or a sip of curdled milk. “Impeccable manners - made you sound like some sort of angel.”

“Well, they were clearly mistaken. How dare I express an opinion contrary to yours. Unforgivable.”

Crowley smirks. It is not a friendly smirk. The geometry of it does something to Aziraphale’s chest. 

“Driver!” Crowley knocks on the roof, sudden and too long-limbed for the small enclosed space. Azirphale flinches. “I’ll get out here, thanks.”

“What - right, right in the middle of the street?” 

“Yeahhhh, I think so. I’m far enough away from the hall, I’ll find a way back to my hotel.”

“In this weather? I -”

But the cab is pulling over, and Crowley is climbing out into the absolute wall of rain. 

“My unending gratitude to Saint Aziraphale Fell for rescuing me from my adoring public,” Crowley says, bowing exaggeratedly.

“Mr. Crowley -”

“Glad we could have this chat. Ciao.” Perhaps it’s meant to sound worldly, but it only comes off as rather insufferable. The man turns away, starts to walk down the quiet street. 

Good, is what Aziraphale wants to think. Good riddance. Crowley can find his own ride in this weather, and leave Aziraphale well out of it.

He wants to think this.

He does.

But instead - he thinks about that uneasy look Crowley gave the audience before he started performing that evening. The way his knee bounced with anxiety while they rode together in the cab. Aziraphale thinks of the first tentative notes the man played on the piano, and the way the melody took Aziraphale by the hand and pulled him so lovingly underwater.

“Mr. Crowley,” he shouts over the rain.

Against all odds - Crowley hears him. He turns back, water dripping from the tip of his nose, clinging to his jawline. 

Aziraphale leans through the open door of the hansom, holding his umbrella out into the stormy night. Crowley stares at it.

“For your - your walk,”Aziraphale says, gesturing up at the black and thunderous sky.

As if he’s afraid the umbrella might attack him, Crowley takes only a few halting steps forward. 

“It _is_ a bit damp,” Aziraphale continues, since the man clearly needs to be convinced.

Crowley takes another slow step closer. Aziraphale expects some sort of imprecation or prickliness, a comment about charity or pity, an insistence on being just fine in the rain.

But Crowley only says “right,” before taking the umbrella in his hand. He lifts it over his head and opens it, blocking the downpour. 

He looks suddenly very small. A narrow man all in black with a pale blue umbrella, lit up only by the streetlamps. 

It seems a lonely place to leave him. Perhaps - perhaps Aziraphale should -

No.

“Mind - mind how you go,” he says quietly. Then he withdraws into the taxicab once again. He does not look out the window to see how long Crowley remains on that street corner in the dark. He does not peer back until the hansom turns a corner and the other man disappears from sight.

He certainly does not. He’s fairly sure he doesn’t.

_(The second movement of Aziraphale’s symphony will be set at night. A world of shadow and lamplight, a world of cloudy skies revealing the occasional needlepoint of constellations. He has played the violin trills in his dreams, he still hears them when he wakes. Sometimes they sound like carriage wheels rolling over cobblestone. Sometimes they sound like the creak of a wooden bench. The endless patter of grey rain._

_He can’t recall exactly when they started sounding like that._

_Perhaps they always have.)_

The next day, in the light and warmth of his own house, the thought of Crowley seems less dire somehow. The blade of the previous evening has dulled with sleep (what little Aziraphale was able to lay claim to) and slid a little lower on his throat. Instead of the rapturous performance, Aziraphale can fixate on the sheer arrogance of the gentleman in question, the nerve of him inflicting himself upon Aziraphale without an invitation. He can mourn the loss of a perfectly serviceable umbrella that was in his possession for nearly twenty years.

He does not need to think about the rain clinging to Crowley’s jawline. Or the sight of him, staring after the hansom cab, alone. 

To ensure that he is sufficiently distracted, Aziraphale spends the next two weeks doing the unthinkable: socializing. He agrees to every visitor and every invitation he might (er, certainly would) have otherwise declined. 

He could, of course, throw himself into composing but - who has the time with such a busy schedule? He goes for tea with Miss Anathema Device, an alarmingly talented cellist from America who has been performing his Concerto in E Minor while on tour. He’s made her acquaintance several times and is equal parts charmed and terrified by her.

He entertains Mr. Newton Pulsifer, an up-and-coming (if rather awkward) pianist from Sussex, where Aziraphale spent some time in his childhood. The young man is about to begin his studies at the Warsaw Conservatory, and Aziraphale is happy to provide him with several letters of introduction for his associates in Poland.

He has dinner with a friend from Vienna, and dinner (regrettably) with Gabriel, and he even agrees to attend one of Madame Therése’s salons (she’s a lovely woman, no doubt, but Aziraphale has occasional difficulty with that amount of physical affection.)

“Bonjour, bonjour.” Madame Therése kisses him on both cheeks when the footman brings him in. “So glad you could join us, mon cher Aziraphale.” (She is not French, this much is well known, but she is so charming that no one is willing to question her publicly about it.)

Madame Therése leads him into the front parlour, where he recognizes a good many of the guests in attendance (perhaps too many. He is subjected to an alarming number of handshakes and claps on the shoulder and questions about his progress on the symphony).

At least Gabriel hasn’t somehow gotten an invitation. 

There are drinks before dinner, and Aziraphale tries to be as at ease as a few sips of gin allows him.

“I’m surprised to see you here, Mr. Fell,” a gentleman is telling him (a conductor? Sandalphon? Aziraphale is nearly certain of these two details, but also terrible at this). The man’s chin juts out in a way that can only be described as harassing. “Read your letter in _AMZ_ , and I heartily agree.”

“It wasn’t my letter, I was simply - lending support.” His stomach twists.

“I heard you had a rather dramatic exit from his latest display here in London,” the man continues, not even pretending to listen. “Well done. I wasn’t there myself, didn’t want to patronize that sort of event.”

“Yes, well, I must confess that - that -” (Words are not his medium. Aziraphale wishes sometimes that they were.) “I was quite surprised that -”

“Of course, I shan’t be saying anything tonight.” The man winks at him, in a manner that - yes, could only be described as harassing. “Not in this company. Though I was lucky enough to attend a salon in Her presence two weeks previous, and I can assure you She agrees with our opinion in this matter.”

“Excuse me a moment.” Aziraphale smiles tightly. It is an expression he has perfected, his pleasant mildness pulled dangerously close to snapping.

There are other guests with which to converse, but the laughter is so boisterous, the chatter so loud, and all Aziraphale can think of is that ridiculous letter. While Therése’s back is turned and all the attention seems to be fixed on their gracious host, Aziraphale steps quietly out of the room.

He intends to find a window, seek some air, and he’s been in the house time enough to know the way to the garden. But as he walks down one hallway and then the next, he hears something from the music room.

The soft sigh of piano keys.

Curious, despite himself, he detours in that direction. When the music comes again, Aziraphale pauses by the door and peers inside.

“ _Oh_ , I -”

The red-haired man bent over the piano jerks up quickly. The melody beneath his fingers stutters and dies, and he looks at Aziraphale with such hot alarm that Aziraphale nearly takes a step back.

“I’m very sorry. I - I didn’t realize -”

“It’s fine.” Crowley is dressed all in black once again, arresting as a raven that has somehow managed to find its way indoors. Madame Therése tends toward excess in her decor as well as personality, and Crowley strikes an oddly attractive silhouette against the backdrop of brocade drapes and cloisonne vases filled with fern leaves that occupy every available surface in the room.

He is not wearing his glasses, however. His eyes are a pale amber, and his gaze seems very raw without the dark shades between them.

“I wasn’t aware that you were in attendance,” Aziraphale says quietly. He should leave. There is no reason for him not to leave. “Had I known -”

“You, what? Wouldn’t have come? No need for dramatics.” Crowley smirks at him, an expression Aziraphale recognizes. “Don’t worry, I won’t subject you to any of my - what did you call it -”

“You needn’t -”

“Formless experiments, contrary to the Innermost Spirit of Music -” Crowley’s hands return to the keyboard.

“Mr. Crowley -“ 

“Strongly to be Deplored! And! Condemned!” He follows each word with a flourishing minor chord.

Aziraphale refuses to cringe in any visible way. Keeps his cringing internal, as it should be. Cringes with his liver, his stomach, his lungs.

“Maybe this’ll be more to your taste.” Crowley considers for a moment, and then the room is filled with a familiar melody.

It’s Aziraphale’s Nocturne in B Minor. 

And it’s - the way it was meant to be played. The way it was always meant to be played. 

Crowley tilts his head toward the keys as if they’re telling him secrets, feeding him the score note by note.

Aziraphale cannot say a word. Cannot even move, can only listen as Crowley makes his way by memory through the broken chords of the left hand. Aziraphale remembers where he was when he wrote that. He had taken a room in York, spent late nights writing by candlelight and days walking the walled city. God, that he was ever that young. That music ever seemed so easy.

As the last chord fades, Crowley lifts his hands.. He lets the silence ring, and when he glances over at Aziraphale there’s a haughty tilt to his jaw and a tightness in his mouth (a “what do you make of that?” A challenge and an insult and a dare for Aziraphale to say anything about it).

Whatever he sees in Aziraphale’s face makes that expression change.

“That was - wonderful,” Aziraphale says in a breath.

“It - what -” Crowley’s mouth keeps moving but no words come out.

“Have you played it before? Oh, but you must have.”

“Um.” Crowley is still opening and closing his mouth with varying degrees of success. “I, uh - heard you play it once. Hamburg, I think. Years back.”

“You’ve only - heard it? Mr. Crowley, it was - was marvelously done. I can’t quite -”

“S’not that complicated,” Crowley drawls, and Aziraphale huffs out a helpless laugh (at the sound of his laugh, Crowley flinches. Clenches one hand into a fist).

“I suppose you’re right.” Aziraphale shakes his head. “Though the harmonies at the end were different. During your last few bars.”

“Like I said, it was years back. Can’t get everything right, can I?”

“No, I liked your version better. It made the ending quite mournful. I feel the dreadful urge to call my publisher, have him burn the original.”

“Don’t do that.” Crowley’s knee starts bouncing again and he slouches, looking back down at the keys. “It’s good. Your version. It’s better.”

“I don’t believe it is.”

“Well. At odds again, aren’t we.” The corner of his mouth twitches, the beginning of a rueful smile.

Aziraphale briefly considers the shape of him. Everything he saw on stage the night they met spoke of bravado and ego but here - here in Therése’s music room - the shrug of Crowley’s shoulders and his averted eyes put Aziraphale in mind of other characteristics entirely.

The way Crowley hunches slightly seems - almost insecure. Protective of a hidden, soft underbelly. Aziraphale remembers that for all of Crowley’s panache and swaggering, they’re nearly of an age. It makes him curious about the life the other man has led until now. 

“How long are you in London?” he asks. He doesn’t know why he asks the question. He doesn’t know why he stands just inside the doorway, asking questions, instead of leaving this man alone.

Crowley cuts his eyes at him, face - very still.

“Bit longer. Couple of days at most. Then I’m back on tour.”

“Where to next?” Aziraphale asks, not that it matters. Or that it matters to him.

“Why? You and your lot gonna come protest?” Crowley’s bony hands return to the piano keys, dancing across them lightly without the strength to make a sound. Aziraphale watches them. 

He considers a response, but no words seem adequate. Crowley takes pity on him.

“You know, I saw you play when you were - what? Fifteen maybe,” Crowley continues, not looking up. “In Pécs, it was. Piano Concerto in A minor. My dad knew a man who knew a man who knew the conductor, got us seats for free. I was thirteen. Had never seen someone as young as you play something like that.”

Aziraphale remembers that performance. Remembers his parents in the front row of stiff-backed chairs, his father’s blue gaze intent on every movement. Remembers the taste of violin rosin in the air, and the way it burned his tongue.

“You were in the palest suit.” Crowley plays a quiet series of chords - major third, perfect fifth. “Your hair in the lights was so white - it’s like you shone. Pretty sure my dad had to close my mouth for me.”

Aziraphale feels his cheeks flame. Heat runs like music over all the planes of his face. 

“You made me want to play piano.” Crowley’s fingers meander across the keys in an odd, melancholic sort of melody. “That was the first time I wanted that. My dad and my mum had tried to teach me, but it was you who made me want to -”

“Gentlemen!” Madame Therése raps on the door frame, and Aziraphale’s heartbeat leaps several octaves. “There you are! I wondered where you both had gone - but I should have suspected. Naughty, naughty - a private performance! You must share your talents with the rest of us after dinner - which is about to be served, and Mr. Crowley, the Schuberts have just arrived and they so long to make your acquaintance. You must let me introduce you. Come then.”

“No one could refuse such a lovely host.” Aziraphale nods graciously, and Madame Therése flutters behind her cream satin fan. She leaves in a gust of jasmine perfume, and Crowley rises from the bench to follow her. He gives a flat look at Aziraphale as their paths cross, and Aziraphale doesn’t know why he does it but - 

-he reaches out. Catches the cuff of Crowley’s jacket (brushes fingers against his blue-veined wrist, but don’t think about that, don’t feel that flutter of pulse, don’t -)

“I was wrong,” he says.

Crowley freezes in place like a pinned butterfly. He stares at Aziraphale, and then glances down at his sleeve, where the tips of Azirphale’s fingers still gently rest on his wrist.

Aziraphale notices this at the same time and drops his hand quickly.

“That letter. It was before I’d heard you play.”

Crowley snorts. “How fair and unbiased of -”

“I was wrong,” Aziraphale speaks over the bitterness in Crowley’s voice, speaks over the race of his heartbeat and the shame that’s hot against his skin. “Your playing is - is _extraordinary_.”

Crowley takes a step back. Then another. 

“You - are extraordinary.”

Crowley’s throat bobs as he swallows. Aziraphale does not want to notice this, but he does. He notices so many things -

“Gentlemen!” Madame Therése calls back to them. Crowley gives Aziraphale an inscrutable look before he turns to go after her. Aziraphale waits only a moment before following along. 

All through dinner he feels sick with the weight of his words. He should not have - have spoken so impulsively, should have retained some semblance of dignity. You are extraordinary, dear God. Crowley must think him insincere at best, a changeable sycophant at worst. 

He manages to make it through Crowley’s after-dinner performance with deep, steadying breaths, begging off when there are requests to hear him play as well.

But then Crowley says, “Go on, Mr. Fell,” and Aziraphale - cannot say no to that. 

He distractedly rushes through one of his latest waltzes, and tries not to feel the other man’s scrutiny upon his back the entire time. Why does Crowley make him feel so dissected, so peeled open and on display? As if all his worst secrets are being revealed with every note that rings beneath his hands.

The evening ends soon after, and Crowley leaves first, all full of polite apologies and elegant kisses to Madame Therése’s gloved hand. Aziraphale does not get to speak with him alone again. Which is just as well. Who knows what other senseless things he would be compelled to say out loud?

He returns to his home, and to his piano. Winter is nearly upon the city, but he far prefers the damp cold to the inclement disappointment of summer, and he is convinced the change of season will benefit his creativity. And it does, for a few days. For a few days, his fists unfold, and a few thin slivers of melody shine from them.

It does not last, however. And two weeks after Madame Therése’s gathering, Edwards interrupts him in his study, staring immobilised at the new blank page, to bring in a package.

Wrapped in brown paper, tied with string, and a very conspicuous shape. When Aziraphale opens the long, narrow box, he laughs out loud at the sight of his umbrella. 

And beneath the umbrella - a note. Written in an unfamiliar and jagged script:

_October 28th, 1844_

_Mr. Fell,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. My apologies - I should have returned your possession sooner, though I admit that keeping it did cross my mind. I am the injured party here, and by rights should have claim to something of yours in recompense. However, I will wait on my prize for the present. I would hate to think of you defenseless against the elements, particularly given the city in which you reside. Bet your hair turns to ringlets in the damp, and while the thought of that is more than slightly amusing, I’d hate to think of you catching a chill for my amusement. You may content yourself with the vision of all the remarkable sights this umbrella has seen in its brief travels with me. Please stay dry, with my thanks._

_I regret that we didn’t get to speak again when last we met, particularly regarding my extraordinary playing. That is something you should feel free to tell me more about. How extraordinary exactly? Or are there other words that come to mind? Superb, brilliant - there are many, no doubt, and I encourage you to think on them. If you would care to provide a list of synonyms, or expand on all the reasons you reached such an inevitable conclusion, I will not be adverse to it._

_Best regards,_

_Antonin J. Crowley_

Aziraphale realizes he is grinning like a mad person, a delighted child, all alone in his study. 

He takes a moment to chasten himself, gets a cup of tea from the kitchen, bites down on the smile that does not want to leave his face. It is nonsensical that such a few lines of text could affect him thusly, but he can hear them in Crowley’s low sarcastic voice, and it makes the text utterly come alive.

The letter was sent from a Manchester hotel, and Aziraphale - could write back if he wished. It would only be polite to express his gratitude. It wouldn’t be too familiar, surely, and the hotel would forward it on if Crowley has already left.

He waits two days before he composes himself enough to pick up a pen.

_November 10th, 1844_

_Mr. Crowley,_

_Thank you very much for my umbrella’s safe return, and for your note. I will give no comment on the state of my hair in the rain. It is a state best not thought of. Indeed, your imagination is probably painting a more elegant picture of my hair than it deserves, and that is not saying much at all._

_In regard to your request: I do rather fear committing myself to any sort of judgement toward your musical skill. Setting these things down in writing has gone somewhat badly for me in the past. Perhaps when we meet again._

_(‘When we meet again’ sits strangely in Aziraphale’s rib cage, like an impatient bird. He considers crossing it out, or beginning the letter again, but then curses himself for overthinking.)_

_Until then I will keep a list of appropriate adjectives on my person, in case the mood strikes and I must jot down another. You will have to content yourself with the memory of the compliment, as I’m sure you often do, lying awake, lonely and unappreciated, having a heart-breaking lack of other sources of praise. Never fear; some day your talents will be known across the globe. People might fight over your gloves even. Though that seems ridiculous. Can you imagine?_

_It is raining as I write this, which so far has prevented me from leaving the house for two days. I had hoped that this would be in aid of my work, but so far it is only in aid of a general sense of malaise and sluggishness. Though I have my books, of course, and they are always excellent company._

_I hope Manchester is lovelier than it is here. I will await the reviews of your performance in the Post, though I expect they will only provide me with more adjectives to add to the list. Unless it was a dismal failure, in which case I will be forced to destroy the list altogether and take up letter writing once again._

_I do not know where the next months will take you, how long before your travels are at an end. Regardless, I wish you well._

_Sincerely,_

_A.Z. Fell_

_P.S. What does the J stand for? You must allow me to make several alarming guesses. Currently I’m in favour of Jethro._

The postscript feels familiar - even brazen - in a way that Aziraphale never feels. He is fairly certain he is blushing even as he writes it, which is ridiculous. Of course. He is not the sort of man who blushes over pen and ink. Who blushes at the very thought of another person (a person whose acquaintance he has barely made twice). 

But he posts the letter anyway. 

The return letter comes quickly, more quickly than Aziraphale expects (he’d be lying if he said he expected any sort of reply at all, and the familiar script on the envelope causes a feeling akin to - panic. Or not panic, but something with bubbles in it. A glass of champagne drained too quickly, shimmering beneath his skin). 

_November 21st, 1844_

_Mr. A.Z. Fell,_

_It is very bold of someone with a name like ‘Aziraphale’ to imply that ‘Jethro’ is alarming. Hypocrisy! Also you’re wrong but that’s beside the point. Jethro - do I look like a Jethro to you? Be honest._

_If you cannot commit to any compliments in writing (unfortunate) you will have to save them up then, as you said, for when next we meet. When that day comes, I will not greet you, or inquire about your health, I will simply sit in silence while you monologue from the list in front of you. I might nod in agreement OR nod in surprised agreement. I wish you could see me right now as I demonstrate the gesture quite effectively. I am practicing; I hope you are practicing as well, I want to be convinced._

_I am glad you have your books in such inclement weather. I imagine your library is abundant and diverse and tediously well-organized. Can’t see you abiding clutter. What are you reading now?_

_‘In aid of your work’ you write - this is where my ears prick up. Or - my eyes or whatever. Dunno, not a poet. Tell me more about this work. Are you referring to a symphony that I might be hearing whispers about in certain musical circles? I’ve never written a symphony. How is that going then?_

_Manchester was fine, good crowd, full of kids. Hope for the future generation, eh? There were a few complaints about the kids being present - not from me. Kids are fine. Next time I’m there, I’ve a mind to purchase a handful of tickets and give them away to large families. Not to be a good person, God no, just to irritate the so-and-so’s that have a problem with anyone under thirty breathing the same air as them._

_Still on tour for another month. I’m in Dublin currently, playing tonight in the Antient Concert Rooms. Small little space, but the acoustics are brilliant. You’ve performed there, sure you remember it. I’ve had a handful of days all to myself, and instead of doing anything productive I’ve just holed up in the Botanical Gardens exorcising personal demons. Nothing so relaxing as an afternoon spent harassing an orchid; you really have to try it. A bit like confession, not that I’d know. I spent a good thirty minutes yesterday telling a Korean Rock Fern all the things I’d never had the guts to tell my father. Got some interesting looks from other visitors, but it was well worth it. Feel three years younger._

_Wishing you better weather, and long walks._

_A.J. Crowley_

Aziraphale only chokes slightly at Crowley’s wholly incorrect vision of his library. “Can’t abide clutter.” Well, it is an organized sort of clutter. Relatively speaking. In Aziraphale’s defense (not that he needs defending.)

Is it wrong that the sight of Crowley’s unusual penmanship should light something up in Azirphale’s chest? Most likely, it is. He - he isn’t usually like this, and never with Crowley’s sort of person. He should end their correspondence here, and get back to more important matters. He has a symphony to write. She is waiting to hear about his progress. 

But he writes Crowley back anyway.

_November 30th, 1844_

_My dear Mr. Crowley,_

_I did not expect a reply so soon, but I’m grateful for it. It rather brightened up what has turned into a wholly dismal November, which is to say a November like all those which passed before it and doubtlessly, those which will follow. The rain is so constant and so cold that I rarely wander beyond my front door, and I confess that I may soon be scratching at the wallpaper. I am reading, though I admit that this dark weather sees me consuming entirely too much Poe than is probably recommended. I am trying to temper it with Dana’s memoir of two years spent at sea, as well as the autobiography of Sir Frederick Douglass. My mind is scattered though; I feel as though I am reading both everything and nothing at once._

(Stop talking about the weather and stop talking about your books. Crowley is going to die of boredom, your letters will be known throughout history as murder weapons.)

_My library is not quite as you described it. I frankly think it’s for the best if you never obtain visual proof of how terribly wrong you are. Though I do have a small African violet within that you can shout at. Perhaps I will try shouting at it myself, after reading your glowing review of the practice._

_Let us not speak of my symphony. Though your question regarding its progress was appreciated. I regret I have nothing much to report on that front._

_You may call me Aziraphale, if you like. You asked what sort of name it was, and apparently it is Biblical; an angel of the Third Angelic Sphere. According to my mother, at least, though you would be hard-pressed to find mention of it in any Bible. My second guess is Joe, since we are on the subject of names._

_Yours,_

_A.Z. Fell_

_December 10th, 1844_

_His Holiness Aziraphale, angel of the Third Angelic Sphere,_

_So you are actually an angel, after all that? Just as I suspected. And Joe. JOE. Nice traditional Hungarian name, Joe. I can see why you’d have guessed it._

_You know that I’m just imagining your library now, and trying to decide what sort of terrible, hellish things might be found within. Do you keep dead bodies in there? Do you preserve every program from every concert you’ve ever given, are they all framed and hung on your wall and covered with tear stains? Do you keep ETCHINGS of other composers and scribble out their eyes in mad and passionate jealousy? I can see that. The nice ones are always the most terrifying. How many etchings of me do you have? I probably don’t want to know, and yet I’ve always had a weakness for asking questions. It’s made my life hell in the past._

_But listen._

_Er. Read, I guess. Last stop on my tour is York, and then I’m free and clear and heading back to Paris for the holidays. I’m performing in the Minster, actually, first time there (gorgeous place) with the violinist B. L. Prince. Have you heard them play before? They’re a right menace, a nightmare, but brilliant. Going to be inspiring riots of their own in the next couple of years._

_You really should meet them, just so you understand what a monster they are, so you can sympathise with me later. And you really should hear them play. They’ve got this - buzzing wildness to their technique, you’d love it. I think you’d love it._

_Not much to do in York, is there? Don’t know the city much. Wonder if there’s anyone who spent some time here that might want to come up and show me around. If such a person did exist, he might even get complimentary tickets to a piano and violin recital at the York Minster on December 21st. Maybe even a meat pie or something for his trouble. Who doesn’t love a good meat pie? He wouldn’t even need to bring a lengthy list of compliments (although of course he could, I’ve never turned down a lengthy list of compliments)._

_I can’t be subtle, it makes my skin itch: I’m talking about you, you realise. You should come._

_If you like._

_Might be fun._

_Yours,_

_Antonin_

Aziraphale folds the letter, and puts it aside. He sits at his desk, and his hands tremble like they’re trilling through Beethoven’s Sonata No. 21.

‘You should come,’ Crowley had written. Which is - a ridiculous idea. Though Aziraphale does love that city - particularly around the holidays. 

But no, he and Crowley are not as familiar as that. He barely knows the man, and besides - if Gabriel were to find out that that the two of them were fraternizing (or _worse_ , if _She_ found out) it could jeopardize Aziraphale's reputation in London. He's hoping for a conductorship once his symphony is completed; it would never do to get on the wrong side of his colleagues. 

But Aziraphale does love that city. It's not much of a trip. It feels a bit like home.

He unfolds Crowley's letter once again. Touches the razorblade ' _A'_ of Crowley's first name, and feels the slice of it into his fingertip.

_(The third movement of a symphony has motion. It is a dance, a minuet. Do you know the origins of the word, minuet? Aziraphale has always believed that the dark, earth-stained roots of things have significance._ Minuet: _from the French_ menuet, _from_ menu _, meaning slender. Meaning very small steps._

_For all that it is a lively dance, a dance for two people standing oh so close together but not yet close enough - it is also a dance of increments. A dance of very small steps._

_Isn’t that the way it goes sometimes? Stair by stair. Note by note._

_Listen, you can hear the music starting. I am offering you my hand._

_Take it. If you like.)_

**Author's Note:**

> They really did write a call-out post (er, letter) about Liszt, can you believe it? Some of the lines that Crowley quotes are from that very same letter. The drama of it all.
> 
> I'm @mia-ugly on Tumblr where I'm doing my best. Come say hi.


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